


Slur

by AutisticWriter



Series: Harry Potter Autistic Headcanons [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autism, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Arthur Weasley, Blood, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied Bullying, Meltdown, Multi, One Shot, Self-Harm, Slurs, r-slur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 09:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7528141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutisticWriter/pseuds/AutisticWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whilst at the Dursleys' house to pick up Harry, Arthur experiences ableism courtesy  of Harry's uncle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slur

The moment he stepped into the living room at Harry’s aunt and uncle's house, Mr Weasley’s eyes widened in astonishment, and he started tapping the tips of his fingers against the tips of his thumbs. Without even saying hello to Harry or apologising for the mess he had casued, Mr Weasley went over to the television. Mr Weasley seemed to be unable to stop himself; slowly, he kneeled down in front of the TV and started to stare at the VCR, carefully running his fingers over the buttons. Harry couldn’t see his face, but he knew he was smiling. He glanced over at Ron, who grinned as though he was used to this.

“Uh, Dad, aren’t we meant to be picking up Harry?” George asked, raising his eyebrows and smiling.

“Yes, um, I guess we are,” Mr Weasley said, tearing his gaze from the machines that so fascinated him. “Hello, Harry.” Harry smiled.

Uncle Vernon was staring warily at Mr Weasley.

“Are you some kind of retard or something?” He asked, frowning, unknowingly causing all hell to break loose.

Mr Weasley froze on the spot, not moving, not stimming, staring at Vernon’s forehead like he couldn’t believe what he had just said. His eyes were wide, and his delighted smile had vanished. He stumbled slightly, looking like he was about to cry.

“What did you say?” Ron muttered, his eyes as wide as his father’s, his voice eerily calm.

Mr Weasley stuck his fingers into his mouth, and started chewing on his nails, and began to bounce on the balls of his feet. His eyes were fixed firmly on the floor, and Harry could see him blinking rapidly, like he was fighting back tears.

Uncle Vernon stared at Ron, the slightest look of fear crossing his angry face. He was obviously remembering what had happened the last time he had angered a wizard.

“What. Did. You. Say?” Fred repeated, his teeth gritted.

Uncle Vernon still didn’t say anything, and Ron swore violently.

Ron stormed up to Uncle Vernon, pulling his wand from his pocket, and pressed the tip of it against his neck. Uncle Vernon stiffened, his eyes wide, but he didn’t speak.

“Ron, stop it!” Harry cried. This wasn’t worth getting arrested for. He looked over at Fred and George for backup, but they were both holding their wands out too, looking like they were itching to hex Uncle Vernon.

“Ron, stop it!” He yelled again, running forwards. “He’s not worth it.”

But Ron wouldn’t listen. He was fuming, his face flushed, his eyes wide, his wand hand trembling. Realising that he wasn’t going to do what he said, Harry grabbed Ron’s arm and used all his strength to drag him away from his uncle.

“Let me do it!” Ron yelled, straining against Harry’s grip. “I’ll bloody kill him! He can’t say that, he just can’t!”

Mr Weasley bit even harder down on his fingers, and winced slightly. He was still staring at the floor, looking like he was trying his hardest to tune this all out.

“I know he can’t,” Harry said, his voice straining. “But, please, don’t do it. He’s not worth it.” He turned to Fred and George. “Get the Floo powder. We’re leaving. We can come back for my stuff.”

Fred reached into his father’s pocket and found the bag of powder. Throwing it back into the fire, the flames turned green, and, calling the name of their home, he disappeared into the flames. George went next, and Harry shoved a still fuming Ron forwards and into the flames after him. And then, carefully, he went up to Mr Weasley.

“Mr Weasley?” He said softly. “We need to go.”

“R-right,” He said flatly, sounding like he had just woken up, his voice muffled by his fingers. He let Harry take his arm, and Harry led him over to the fireplace.

Harry gave his uncle one last glare, and then they both stepped into the flames.

Once they were back at the Burrow, Harry stepped out of the fireplace, and suddenly noticed that Mr Weasley was crying. Silently, he was sobbing, with tears trickling down his cheeks from behind his tear-splattered glasses. He took his fingers out of his mouth for the first time, and Harry saw blood running down his fingers. He’d bitten his nails down so far that his fingers were bleeding. Harry felt a bit sick at the sight. He didn’t know what to say, or if he should even say anything.

But then Ron looked his father, and realised what Harry had already seen. “Dad? Are you crying?”

“Of course he’s bloody well crying, you thicko,” Fred said, but he, too, was staring at Mr Weasley with an anxious expression on his face.

“Are you all right, Dad?” George asked.

“S-sorry,” Mr Weasley sniffed, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead and scrubbing at his eyes with his bloody hands. All this achieved was that he smeared his eyes and cheeks with blood, and he grimaced.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Harry said. “I told you all my relatives were awful. It’s their fault. My uncle’s a git.”

Mr Weasley smiled weakly, and burst into tears all over again. He seemed to be crying so hard that speech wasn’t possible, and simply shrugged his shoulders, wiping his now bloody face on his sleeve instead. He was still bouncing on the balls of his feet. Bloody tears were dripping off of his chin and splattering his robes.

Fred and George each took one of his elbows (gripping them hard enough to hurt, Harry thought, but Mr Weasley didn’t seem to mind) and led their father towards the table. They eased him into a chair, and he immediately began to rock backwards and forwards, his sobs catching in his throat.

Ron went to the kitchen doorway and yelled, “Mum! We’re back and we need some help!”

Mrs Weasley must have sensed the anxiety in his voice, because, only two seconds later, she apparated into the kitchen with a loud crack. When she saw her husband crying, she hurried over and sat down beside him.

“Arthur, darling, what happened?” She said soothingly, putting an arm around his shoulders and hugging him tightly, helping him rock. “Why’re you bleeding?”

Mr Weasley said nothing, but held out his hands in front of him. They were shaking violently. Harry saw more clearly that his nails and cuticles were badly torn, and still oozing blood. She sighed and began to stroke his hair.

“But you only do that when you’re upset,” she murmured. And then Mrs Weasley looked up at her sons and Harry, frowning in confusion. “Who upset him?”

Ron looked at Harry, and he knew he would have to explain. He sighed.

“Well, you know my uncle, well, he called Mr Weasley a retard.”

Fred cracked his knuckles and George swore; Ron gritted his teeth and scowled; and Mrs Weasley gasped.

“What? Why would he say that?”

“Because he’s a git!” Ron yelled, and no one argued with him.

Harry sighed again. “Mr Weasley was stimming and admiring the VCR, and then my uncle, who was glaring at him, decided to call him that word.”

Mrs Weasley frowned. “I can’t believe it.”

“I can,” Harry raised his eyebrows. “My uncle’s a complete git. I wouldn’t have put it past him.”

Mrs Weasley smiled weakly, still stroking her husband’s hair. But then she frowned. “Harry, I need you to understand me when I ask you this: do you think Arthur overreacted to be being called that word?”

Harry shook his head. “Of course not.”

She visibly relaxed slightly. “Good. Because, well, Arthur doesn’t have a very good history with that word, you see, so it affects him more than it would other people.”

Mr Weasley moaned, sounding like he was agreeing. “

When we were at Hogwarts, Arthur used to get really badly bullied,” Mrs Weasley said, her eyes shining. “No one knew he was autistic – he didn’t get diagnosed until he was in his thirties – but the other kids used to pick on him for being different. And they always, always, used to call him a . . . that word. So for someone to call him that after all this time . . .”

Mrs Weasley looked at her husband, who was now banging his forehead against her shoulder; she carefully took hold of his head to stop him doing it, and he groaned. “Well, you can see why it’s caused him to have a meltdown, can’t you?”

Harry nodded, hating his uncle even more. “Do you want us to leave?”

Mr Weasley nodded, groaning, and so did Mrs Weasley.

“If you don’t mind, dear.”

Harry glanced at Ron and the twins, and they all filed out of the kitchen in silence. Once they reached the living room, they all sat down, sighing.

“If you hadn’t stopped me, Harry,” Ron said slowly, clenching his hand around the wand still gripped in his hand, “I don’t know what I would’ve done to him.”

For once, Fred and George didn’t try to make a joke out of the situation. Harry didn’t blame them. There was nothing funny about this at all.

And he knew he hated his uncle even more than he already did, because who could possibly want to hurt poor, harmless Mr Weasley?


End file.
